By noon, Luke and Sheriff Patterson were standing on an abandoned stretch of riverbank nearly three miles south of Belle Rive.
Patterson unfolded an old survey map across the hood of his truck. "This was the river's edge in 1931."
Luke studied the faded lines. "There's nothing here now."
"Exactly."
"Then how do we know the landing existed?"
Patterson pointed. "Because somebody kept records."
Luke looked at the map.
The name was barely visible.
McCrory Landing.
Luke felt a chill. "Elias McCrory."
Patterson nodded. "River trader. Smuggler. Occasional informant."
"Informant for Garrison?"
"Apparently."
Luke looked toward the water. "What was he informing him about?"
Patterson folded the map. "That's what we're here to find out."
They walked along the bank.
The land had changed dramatically since the 1930s. Trees had grown where the old road once ran. The river had eaten away sections of the shoreline.
Then Luke stopped. "Here."
Patterson turned.
Luke pointed toward a cluster of cypress trees. "There."
Half buried beneath mud and roots was a wooden post.
Patterson knelt and scraped away the dirt. Letters appeared beneath the moss.
M.L.
"McCrory Landing," Luke whispered.
Patterson stood. "There's something else."A few feet away, the ground had collapsed.Luke crouched beside the depression.
He reached into the mud. His fingers touched metal. He pulled.
A small brass plate emerged. He wiped it clean. There were words engraved across it.
PROPERTY OF BELLE RIVE RIVER COMPANY
Luke looked at Patterson. "What was the Belle Rive River Company?"
Patterson's face had gone pale. "My father owned it."
Luke stared.
"William Garrison owned a river company?"
"On paper."
"What does that mean?"
"It means the company existed."
Patterson looked toward the river. "But I never understood why."
Luke stood. "Maybe the company wasn't the business."
Patterson looked at him.
"Maybe it was the cover."
A sound came from the trees. Both men turned. Nothing.
Luke reached for the pistol at his hip. Patterson did the same. They waited.
Then a branch snapped. Someone ran.
Luke took off after them. He crashed through the brush, tearing his sleeve on a thorn.
The figure was fast. Too fast.
Luke caught a glimpse of the brown coat. "Stop!"
The stranger kept running.
Luke followed until the trees opened onto the riverbank. The man was gone. But something had been left behind.A black leather notebook.
Luke picked it up. The cover was worn. There was no name. He opened it. The first page contained a single sentence.
If Luke McCall finds this, the river has finally told him where to look.
Luke stared at the words.
Patterson reached him. "What is it?"
Luke handed him the notebook.
Patterson read the sentence. Then he looked at Luke."How did he know you'd find it?"
Luke shook his head. "I don't know."
Patterson turned another page. A list of names filled it. Some were crossed out. Some had dates beside them.
And at the bottom of the page was a name neither man expected to see.
SAM McCALL.
Luke's heart stopped. His father.
Beneath his name was a date.
October 17, 1931.
Patterson looked at Luke. "That's impossible."
Luke stared at the page. His father's murder had happened years later.
He knew that. So why had Sam's name appeared in a notebook from 1931?
Luke turned the page.
There was only one sentence. Sam knew about the river before he knew what it would cost him.
Luke closed the book. The mystery had just changed.
This wasn't about something that happened after his father died. It had started years before.
And suddenly, Luke understood why the stranger had been afraid. He wasn't trying to keep Luke from finding the past. He was trying to keep Luke from finding out that Sam had been part of it.
The river moved behind them. Slow. Dark. Patient. And somewhere beneath its surface lay the rest of the story.
Luke looked at Patterson. "We're going back to Belle Rive."
Patterson nodded. "Why?"
Luke held up the notebook. "Because I think my father left something behind."
"What?"
Luke looked toward the river. "I don't know."
Then he looked down at Sam's name. "But I think someone else knows."
And miles away, in a house overlooking the river, a woman sat alone at a kitchen table. In front of her was an old photograph. She turned it over.
On the back were four names. She ran her finger across the first three. Then stopped at the fourth.
SAM McCALL.
She whispered: "He was never supposed to tell."
And somewhere in the darkness...the telephone rang.